This is also not the front. This is nothing Edward has ever experienced before. He's floating, like he's swimming but without water, swimming in the air, and he doesn't like it. He can't seem to control where he's going, and this room isn't one he knows.
After flailing through the air for awhile, his hands outstretched and grasping in front of him, Edward manages to find a wall. He's somehow able to grasp it with just the pads of his fingers, clinging to it like a spider, and the strangeness of that won't occur to him until later. For now, he's simply grateful to be secured somewhere.
"Hello?" His voice is soft and polite, even here, tinged with an upper class British accent. "Is there anyone out there?"
Testing
Somehow, Edward has made his way to the hospital. It made the most sense to make his way there; he'd been in one before arriving wherever this is, and perhaps someone he knows might be there. There might even be a doctor who can treat his eyes, although that is an ever-dwindling possibility and he knows it.
But this isn't a hospital like Edward knows. It's messy, and chaotic, and dangerous, even more so than the field hospitals. The one thing is has going for it is that it isn't coated in mud, blood, and shit, and Edward is able to walk through it without mud trying to suck his boots away.
Unfortunately, even without the mud, there are still sharp things strewn about, and Edward winces when one of his wandering hands is pricked by a needle.
As he keeps exploring, his head starts to fill with little flashes, little tidbits that seem to be coming from somewhere else. Fragments of voices, images, memories, that aren't his own. It's troubling, and Edward tries to push them out of his mind. When he does, he unknowingly pushes out images and words of his own.
help
over the top
let's go boys, let's show the hun what we're made of
whistling, falling whistling
explosions, the wet smack of dirt and mud landing from great heights
wordless screaming, endless, cries for help, cries for mother
And colours, bold, ugly swathes of colour, rippling through his mind like waves. Dark, muddy reds; darkness that isn't empty, darkness that's full of shining metal teeth; khaki brown splattered with bright, arterial red.
Psychic echoes
There is so much to avoid here, so many dangers. Being unable to see them only compounds things. Edward eventually made his way out of the hospital, but stumbled across an insidious little plant. It wrapped around his ankle before he was able to rip it off.
Now he's sitting at a campfire that someone else has made, clutching a stick he found that he's been using as a cane. If anyone gets close, they'll be clobbered by the waves of emotion emanating off him. There's fear, bright and snarling and yellow, and a few streaks of a strange, deep green, which glimmers to the surface and then disappears. But mostly it's despair, huge and purple and overwhelming, suffocating, billowing out of his every pore.
[OOC: Edward is a WWI veteran who was recently blinded by a mustard gas attack. He's not adapting well to his new disability and can be short tempered about it. If anyone wants to probe at his emotions or temporary telepathy, they're going to get walloped with WWI imagery and memories.]
Edward Courtenay | Downton Abbey
This is not the hospital.
This is also not the front. This is nothing Edward has ever experienced before. He's floating, like he's swimming but without water, swimming in the air, and he doesn't like it. He can't seem to control where he's going, and this room isn't one he knows.
After flailing through the air for awhile, his hands outstretched and grasping in front of him, Edward manages to find a wall. He's somehow able to grasp it with just the pads of his fingers, clinging to it like a spider, and the strangeness of that won't occur to him until later. For now, he's simply grateful to be secured somewhere.
"Hello?" His voice is soft and polite, even here, tinged with an upper class British accent. "Is there anyone out there?"
Testing
Somehow, Edward has made his way to the hospital. It made the most sense to make his way there; he'd been in one before arriving wherever this is, and perhaps someone he knows might be there. There might even be a doctor who can treat his eyes, although that is an ever-dwindling possibility and he knows it.
But this isn't a hospital like Edward knows. It's messy, and chaotic, and dangerous, even more so than the field hospitals. The one thing is has going for it is that it isn't coated in mud, blood, and shit, and Edward is able to walk through it without mud trying to suck his boots away.
Unfortunately, even without the mud, there are still sharp things strewn about, and Edward winces when one of his wandering hands is pricked by a needle.
As he keeps exploring, his head starts to fill with little flashes, little tidbits that seem to be coming from somewhere else. Fragments of voices, images, memories, that aren't his own. It's troubling, and Edward tries to push them out of his mind. When he does, he unknowingly pushes out images and words of his own.
help
over the top
let's go boys, let's show the hun what we're made of
whistling, falling whistling
explosions, the wet smack of dirt and mud landing from great heights
wordless screaming, endless, cries for help, cries for mother
And colours, bold, ugly swathes of colour, rippling through his mind like waves. Dark, muddy reds; darkness that isn't empty, darkness that's full of shining metal teeth; khaki brown splattered with bright, arterial red.
Psychic echoes
There is so much to avoid here, so many dangers. Being unable to see them only compounds things. Edward eventually made his way out of the hospital, but stumbled across an insidious little plant. It wrapped around his ankle before he was able to rip it off.
Now he's sitting at a campfire that someone else has made, clutching a stick he found that he's been using as a cane. If anyone gets close, they'll be clobbered by the waves of emotion emanating off him. There's fear, bright and snarling and yellow, and a few streaks of a strange, deep green, which glimmers to the surface and then disappears. But mostly it's despair, huge and purple and overwhelming, suffocating, billowing out of his every pore.
[OOC: Edward is a WWI veteran who was recently blinded by a mustard gas attack. He's not adapting well to his new disability and can be short tempered about it. If anyone wants to probe at his emotions or temporary telepathy, they're going to get walloped with WWI imagery and memories.]